Hello everyone. So this is my new story, a second version of V for Vendetta, if you like. I've taken bits mainly from the film but I just finished the book a few days ago so yeah...I don't own anything, or anyone, apart from Vanessa. And some things may be inaccurate, but anyways.

Enjoy!

Prologue

To be completely honest, I've never been the sort of person to record any sort of past experiences on a piece of paper. And I've certainly never been the sort of person that takes any sort of pleasure in telling anyone and everyone about them. I keep these memories in my head, where they belong. And whenever I find myself remembering one of them, sometimes even against my will, my memory is able to rewind, fast-forward, and play them. Then every detail comes into mind, clear and sharp, like a high-definition piece of video.

Sometimes, though, I wish I could press Mute. Or even better, Stop.

But I can't.

The reason why I'm even bothering to record this at all is not a matter of choice. It's more a matter of request from my psychiatrist Sarah, asking me to write down all the events that have occurred over this past year. Pause. Rewind. The 5th of November, when the Parliament building collapsed. The train station. The Shadow Gallery. Evey. And above all, the man who started it all, the man who rescued me from the Fingermen, just as he did Evey.

The man in the Guy Fawkes mask.

V.

Sarah (short blonde hair, hazel eyes, same white blouse and skirt), sat me down at a table and looked across at me with that 'special' sort of gaze that people like her have. The sort of gaze that you feel is always looking right into your soul, silently boring a hole right through you, scanning you for pieces of information they might find useful. A solution to help them find out what the hell is wrong with you.

"You have a good memory, Vanessa." she said, scribbling something on that small pad of white paper she always carries round with her. "Perhaps you'd like to put it to good use."

I simply stared at her and shrugged. What was the point of writing if I could draw instead? With drawing, I didn't need to think up ideas, or where, or what, or who. I could just draw, and let the pencil come to life in my hand.

"It may very well help to let go of your anxiety." Sarah continued, reaching into the drawer of her desk and pulling out a medium-sized red spiral-bound notebook. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a black ballpoint pen and placed it on top of the book. "You can draw in it, you can write about whatever you like. You never know, you might surprise yourself." She looked at me again. "You're always saying that you want to be an artist."

V always told me that I could be an artist. But I wasn't going to tell her that.

"Nobody will ever read it." I said quietly, in an attempt to discourage her.

Sarah nodded, slightly. "You don't have to let anyone read it if you don't want to, Vanessa." The barest hint of a smile played on her lips. "You could burn it, if you want to."

Yet another excuse to set fire to something. I smile slightly. V would have been pleased.

"There you go." She flicks over another page of her notes and taps the side of her head with a smile. "It's all in there. You just have to figure it out."

I catch a glance of the blackly-printed words that show through the other side of the page. Patient: Vanessa Briegon. Age: 17. Suffers from: Dream Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Insomnia. I've read those words now too many times to count.

For a moment, my gaze shifts to the red notebook lying on the desk.

And at the same time, a silent resolve forms itself inside my head.

Not sure if I should continue...or maybe I will...what did you think?